


and thus, begins the end.

by AshToSilver



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 23:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7194827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshToSilver/pseuds/AshToSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce is no stranger to the clown’s causal presence by now, so he doesn’t give away the faint chill that goes down his spine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and thus, begins the end.

**Author's Note:**

> **Anonymous requested:** _this crisis is so huge that it has the bat and the clown co- operating against the overwhelming odds, this crisis will be rough on them both so it's good to grab those few precious moments for relaxation._
> 
> Still a part of my [June Prompt Challenge](http://alexfics.tumblr.com/post/145111053242/accepting-batjokes-prompts). Let me know if you have a request!

It’s late.

The sky is dark, midnight already passed and Gotham is a crumbled mess, stone long-since shattered and left for nature to reclaim. Any chance at going back has long since vanished, and they know that now.

It’s been too late for a long time now.

And still, Bruce goes out, makeshift armour half-beaten and half-repaired, minus the mask, minus the cape, but still notably Batman. If anyone remembers who Bruce Wayne was, they don’t care anymore, he’s as beaten and scarred and as tired as the rest of them.

Gravel and debris crunches under his boots and he pauses near the corner of Baker and Laurelton, surveying the open expanse of space before him with a cautious eye.

Say what you will, but Bruce had trained with Ra’s ah Ghul in the Arabian Peninsula. He’d learned to be wary of wide open spaces there and he’d had it restated here, where a gap in the dense buildings like this could mean an ambush. There hasn’t been one for a while, but that might just mean that something is about to hit again.

“Yeesh, Batsy, they already swept the block this afternoon,” there’s an easy but exhausted chuckle behind him. “Stop tryin’ burn holes through things with that glare of yours.”

Bruce is no stranger to the clown’s causal presence by now, so he doesn’t give away the faint chill that goes down his spine. He’s accepted this new world, and the chances in alliances that have come with it. He even considers the Joker a trusted ally.

But his head is a dark place and there’s nothing stopping his thoughts to questioning why the clown approaches him from behind. He wants to know where the knives are, wants to hear intentions stated.

And he must know, because the Joker slides up beside him, giving Bruce a _really_? look, clearly sensing at least partially where his head is going.

“It’s too quiet,” Bruce says, because a silence between the two of them usually ends up with a fight of some kind, sexual or not, and he doesn’t think he can handle the contact right now.

He didn’t use to be like this, and he regrets it now. He wonders if it was his fault.

“Fuck, you’re mopey,” the Joker says, but gestures carelessly anyway. “You’re lucky it looks good on you.”

“There is something out,” he says, because he knows, he _knows_.

The Joker does too. He doesn’t frown - but, well, he doesn’t smile either. “There always is, darling.” His hands flutter, looking to touch and hold and knowing his bat doesn’t always like it as much as he does. “And if you get the thing that’s out there, there’s gonna be another one too, you gotta sit down.”

“You think I can sleep like this?” Bruce asks, shifting his feet and wincing at the sound of gravel. “I can barely eat.”

“Didn’t ask you to.” The Joker clasps his hands behind his back and rocks back and forth on his heels, an oddly swaying, hypnotising motion that reminds Bruce how much he loves the curves under the clown’s own armour, how mesmerizing their dances used to be. “Just sit down love, I’ll keep watch.”

He does, telling himself it’s his old, worn knees and the desire to save his energy for a fight or a run later. He doesn’t even bother to move, just sinks to the ground and buries his face in his hands, a deep breath rattling around his lungs but not otherwise doing much at all.

The Joker does him the honour of not touching, not speaking, not doing anything but standing beside him and watching the empty expanse.

And when Bruce is ready he raises his head and the clown sits beside him, leaning against Bruce’s shoulder as a warm, comforting presence.

“This will not kill us,” he hisses, low and powerful, as only the clown prince of Gotham could be, and Bruce whispers into soft green hair, “ _I know_.”


End file.
